the horses cheekbones singshadows deepenand the sky falls, not to darknessbut to baby clotheswrinkled, waiting to swaddle the earth in lullaby colorsand all the whileour storiesstashed in a wood stovesmolderuntil stars start to clutter our sky and silhouettes of charred trees scar the horizon.

we brush our teeth with moondustand if thouse clouds were a renaissance of color, this dark is a renaissance of youthinnocence and imagination steal us away from the staleness of thingsinsisting on beingawakehumbled by the sweetness of nowfear sinks deep into the slithering of the creekand the horses cheekbones sing.